


Treacherous

by isengard



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Songfic, drabbly nonsense, word vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isengard/pseuds/isengard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>This slope is treacherous,</em>
  <br/>
  <em>This path is reckless.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Treacherous

As far as everyone else knows, it’s just another night at Bobby’s.  Sam’s half-collapsed on the sofa, Bobby’s behind his desk translating something from Middle English, and Dean’s going between pacing around the kitchen, grabbing beers, and shoving Sam over so he can sit down, only to stand up again and pace some more.  Bobby looks up from his work every five minutes or so to bark at Dean to _settle down_ , and Dean barks back something about how he _will, once Sam stops fucking ovulating or whatever and turns off this sappy movie about goddamn blue people._  


“It’s won a bunch of awards, Dean!” Sam sighs exasperatedly.  “Cas understands, right?”  He shoots Castiel a pleading look from across the room, where he’s seated on a bench, sleeves rolled up, forearms bare against his dirty slacks, watching them all.  
     
_Understand_ is a strong word, Castiel thinks.  He doesn’t understand anything these days.  Doesn’t understand where his sense of loyalty went, why he’s elected not to return to Heaven for weeks now, when the edges of his consciousness fell away so that all he could think of was Dean.  He doesn’t understand why he’s sitting here, watching these three men bicker like children, when he’s supposed to be on the other side of the world, protecting seals that seem like they’re breaking easier every day.  
     
“Cas?”  
     
“Give him a second, Sam, he’s booting up.”  
     
He feels Dean’s eyes on him before he meets them, and he’s still not ready for the feeling that fills him when he does.  Sometimes, he stands on the edge of a highway, any highway, every highway, and waits for the headlights of the Impala, and sees where they’ve come from and where they’re going, and that’s what it feels like when he looks at Dean.  He sees a boy, he sees a man, he sees the anger and the guilt and the love and the horror and the _duty_ , duty stronger than he’s seen in any angel, fiercer and brighter than any force on Heaven or Earth.  He sees his own undoing – his _fall_ – and he keeps looking, because it’s dangerous and terrifying and beautiful, and it fills him up with desperate yearning for things he never even knew he could want.  
     
Dean’s eyes flit away from his, and he recognizes the cue to follow suit.  He focuses on the television.  “I don’t know why you don’t like it, Dean,” he says.  “The blue woman is very nearly naked, and this is technically animation.  Sam has told me you enjoy those things.”  
     
Sam bursts out laughing, and Castiel takes a moment to be pleased with himself over the dumbfounded look on Dean’s face.  “You – I – you know what, screw _both_ of you,” he growls, stalking back to the kitchen to get another beer.  Castiel feels something tug at him when Dean disappears from view, and without meaning to, he’s followed him into the other room, pausing by the window to ruminate again on how very _bad_ of a idea all of this is.  
     
“Want one?”  Dean’s arm is outstretched towards him, offering a bottle.  
     
Castiel swallows and shakes his head.  “I don’t.”  
     
Dean’s mouth quirks in a smile.  “Getting an angel drunk would probably fast-track my ass back to the pit, huh.”  
     
He’s still holding the bottle out.  Castiel reaches with disobedient fingers and takes it, flips the top off with his thumb, and looks down at it uncertainly.  
     
Dean chuckles.  “Careful, Cas.  It’s all downhill from here.”  
     
_Yes_ , Castiel wants to say, _it is._   Falling, rebelling, loving, plunging down into something dark and unfamiliar, searching for the bottom just so you know how broken you’ll be when you hit it.  It should scare him; should send him flying back to Heaven full of penance and regret.  He should be scrambling back up to the top while he still can, because he knows the ground could slip out from under him at any moment.  
     
Instead, he takes a long pull from the bottle, and gets an appreciative look from Dean that makes something in him tighten and loosen at the same time.  
     
“Cas,” Dean starts after a moment, “Why are you here?  Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to have you, I mean,” he jerks his thumb in the direction of the living room, “Samantha gets on my nerves after a while.  But shouldn’t you be – like – up in Heaven with your angel buddies, or whatever?”  
     
It’s a legitimate question, but it grates Castiel a little, because if he knew the answer, he might not be in this situation in the first place.  Dean makes it sound like he has a choice, and maybe he does.  Maybe he’s choosing to get pulled down by this invisible current of leather and gunpowder and sweat and alcohol, maybe he really is weighing out his options and choosing _this_ one, because Dean means more to him than Paradise or Salvation or Grace itself.  
     
“I don’t know,” he admits.  “It’s complicated.”  
     
Dean nods in that measured way that he has, slow, calculating.  “You’re taking a risk, being friends with us,” he says grimly.  “We’ve got a shitty track record.”  
     
Castiel finishes his beer.  “I am slightly more durable than your average human.”  
     
“I’m serious, man.”  
     
It doesn’t feel like a choice, when Dean looks up at him with tired eyes through long lashes, when he drags those eyes down to Castiel’s mouth and Castiel’s skin becomes something electric and alive, when the human heart in Castiel’s chest starts thumping so loud he swears the whole room can hear it.  It feels like something solid and unbreakable, like an anchor, like he can’t walk away but he doesn’t care because he’d never want to.  
     
“It’s worth it,” he says firmly, and he knows it’s true down to the very essence of his existence.  
     
Dean sucks in a breath and then says, “All right,” and grabs a couple more beers, tossing one to him.  He reaches over, and Castiel freezes, his breath caught in his throat, and Dean clinks the necks of their bottles together.  “To going downhill.”  
     
Castiel exhales.  “To going downhill.”  He drinks, and privately adds, _together_.  
     
Later, when they’re all asleep in their clothes with loaded weapons under their pillows, Castiel stands by Dean’s window, watching the headlights on distant highways, thinking abstract thoughts about destiny and destinations.  The slope he’s on is sliding beneath his feet, and it’s only a matter of time before it drags them all down.  
     
He fills himself with the vision of Dean, and prepares to Fall.


End file.
